


You are not haunted by the war, Doctor Watson

by Keii



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Episode: s04e03 The Final Problem, Flashbacks, Gen, He's more light gray tbh, Kind of Dark!John, Not really though
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-10
Updated: 2018-06-10
Packaged: 2019-05-20 18:42:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14899904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Keii/pseuds/Keii
Summary: John closed his eyes and concentrated. The gun was heavy in his hands, a familiar weight.He could hear Sherlock's sister talking - "There will, I'm afraid, be regular prompts to create an atmosphere of urgency."He thought of Afghanistan.





	You are not haunted by the war, Doctor Watson

**Author's Note:**

> Hi!
> 
> So, this is my first fanfic ever ^^ I had quite a few idea for fanfics in both this fandom and others, but I never tried to write them down before. This one started because of the frustration I felt when I watched The Final Problem (I had guessed Eurus would still kill the wife, since she said explicitely that she wanted either John or Mycroft to kill David - suicide didn't count) and I looked for a fic in which John would pull the trigger and kill David.  
> I didn't search for very long, because most of the fics I saw are Post-Episode 3x04, so I just decided to try it myself! :P
> 
> This is quite short, and also non-betaed, so all mistakes are my own. English is also not my first language, so yeah, if you find some strange not-really-english words or sentences, sorry. I tried my best ^^
> 
> Hope you enjoy it,
> 
> Keii
> 
> PS: picture found here: https://goo.gl/images/UgVcmC

                                                                                     

John closed his eyes and concentrated. He thought of Afghanistan. Of sand and sun and blood, of the dry air and dusty ground. He thought of Pete, still and cold on the operation table, of having his hand deep in Pete's guts, red, red, _red_. Gun shots resonated in his ears, there was the smell of ashes in his nose. The gun was heavy in his hands, a familiar weight. He could hear Sherlock's sister talking, her voice cold and mechanic. Lifeless.

"There will, I'm afraid, be regular prompts to create an atmosphere of urgency."

Red lights. Moriarty's irritating voice in the background. The director was looking at him, with something almost like hope in his eyes.

_There was a man on the ground, injured but still breathing (threat, careful, watch your back – watch your back!). He had a grenade in his right hand, armed but intact (defective). A soldier screamed behind him (Henry? Hedrick?) "Grenade!" and aimed his weapon, firing, firing,_ firing _. The sand was wet, and redred_ red _, John was already at the side of another wounded man, already reaching for something to cover the wound, stop the bleeding, save the life-_

Sherlock was speaking, his distinctive voice low and calm (he sounded like he was totally panicking inside, though, and what entertaining experience this must be, for him, to be here, in the middle of nowhere, being psychologically tortured by his newly-discovered sister; John wondered which grade this case had earned: a nine? a ten?).

_He had pulled the trigger, shot an old man though a window in an university, in the middle of London, to save a guy he had only just met, and didn't even like that much. At least then he had had the excuse of Afghanistan. He had just been back, after all. What excuse had he now? Kill the man to save the wife? As if. Despite what some people believed, he was not a goody two-shoes, and it was not because of his never ending kindness that he stayed with Sherlock. No, he would add another mark to his tally for Sherlock, for Mary, for Rosie. To get them all out of this hell alive._

"What's your name?"

"David."

"Are you sure about this, David?"

"Of course I'm bloody sure!"

_A blue sky, burning sand, sound of fire and gunshots. An excruciating pain in his shoulder, and, on his hands, only redred_ re _-_

"Nearly there!" Eurus sing sung.

John aimed the gun at David's chest. His finger trembled on the trigger. Mycroft made an odd little sound, almost like a whimper and turned to face the wall, his hands covering his mouth.

"Please."

The director breathed deeply, exhaled, then turned around, and knelt on the floor. Now it looked exactly like what it really was: an execution. John looked at Sherlock's face, unreadable, assessing, observing, then at David's neck. He pressed the gun against his head, trying to stop it from shaking.

Red lights flashed.

"Tock tock, tick tick tick" said Moriarty.

John looked at the wife, thought of red on his hands (redred _red_ ). He thought of war, of how-

_"You are not haunted by the war, Doctor Watson. You miss it." Mycroft had said, on their very first meeting in that shady warehouse._

His hands were steady, his fingers unmoving. John closed his eyes, thought of Afghanistan, thought of London. Then he pulled the trigger.


End file.
